Dorchester's Child
by Tedd.E.Bare
Summary: Fred left the County of Dorset a decade ago, only returning at the behest of his sister. His engagement was long over, the girl he loved seemingly long-gone. It turns out he left more behind than what he originally thought. Modern take. Very AU Fred-centric one-shot. (T for minor language)
So I thought of this... and it wouldn't go away. Fred-POV-centric. Modern take. Rather AU.

.::.

Fred hated the entire town of Dorchester. From its large, sprawling estates, to the small humble cottages, right down to the shopping centres, and most of all, the memories that haunt him of the entire place; the ghosts of the past that still linger in the Dorset town. He never would have gone there again if his sister and brother-in-law hadn't bought a house so they could run the military museum there.

So Dorchester is where he finds himself, staying for a month, and enthralling his sister's new neighbours, the large, rich Musgrove family, at a dinner on his second night there. There are two daughters, twins Lisa and Hannah who spend the evening regaling them all with stories from university, a younger son Richard who is confined to a wheelchair after crashing his car whilst hooning. There's an elder son too, who was due to come with his wife and kids, but phoned ahead to say they wouldn't make it to the party, their eldest child having taken a tumble and dislocating a shoulder. The lot of them stuck in the Emergency Department, waiting for a doctor to pop the boy's shoulder back in its socket and then an x-ray to ensure that the shoulder was the only damage.

He sits between both chatty girls, and tries to forget.

.::.

It's only a day or two after that, that his sister, Sophie informs him of another dinner, one that the Musgrove's plan to host. Living on large estates means they're able to host fancy outdoor dinners with decorations that the people on Pinterest all fawn over. Fred tries to not think about the dinner, knowing who will be there; Sophie had filled him in on the names to put to unknown faces, until the names stopped being new and started being familiar.

" _The Elliot family will of course be there. He's a Baron, or a Lord, or a Knight, or something. Anyway he's got a title and everyone usually calls him 'Sir Elliot' unless he tells them otherwise. He's got a few daughters, fashionable little things too. There's one daughter Adrian and I haven't met, but out of the two we have, it's the younger one that's married to the Musgrove's son, I can't remember her name, but she's definitely the more sensible one of the two. Then there's the Aunt, Rachel Russell, she's the sister of their mother who passed away and kind of stepped in. Fierce woman that, she's a lawyer too, I can't imagine going against her. There were some shenanigans with a few weeks back regarding some case and she took the guy down and out in one sitting. The eldest Elliot girl is a designer for some fashion house in Italy, but she's on holidays so she's back…"_

Those words haunt Fred for the rest of the week, convinced he knows which two women in particular he will end up having to face come Saturday; Anne and her Aunt Rachel, the woman who convinced Anne to leave him.

" _She's definitely the more sensible of the two."_ Anne was always sensible.

.::.

He's tried so hard to forget Anne, it's been almost a decade since he's seen her and he's not entirely sure he'll cope with having to deal with watching her and her perfect little "2.5 kids and a white picket fence" family with another man. He's has tried to move on, tried to have relationships with other women, with little success past the awkward first lunch date. Anne and her quiet little self have always stuck with him, has set the bar for how much he wants to feel for someone.

The dread in his gut festers and broils until it reaches its peak Saturday morning when he's in the shower and leaning against the cool tiles and pretending he's not nauseas. It's only when he's dried and dressed and convinced by Adrian to meet them for lunch in town that his heart stops pounding a million miles an hour. He sees them, from a distance, it's Sir Walter Elliot and his eldest daughter, Elizabeth; they are too far away for them to recognise him, and in the decade long separation, he doubts they'd remember the teenage boy who wanted Sir Walter's blessing to marry his middle daughter.

His fear dissipates over lunch, and by dinner he is a picture of calm, even if there's still one giant, spastic butterfly wreaking havoc on his stomach. His fears from the past half-week end up being unfounded, for the woman married to Charles Musgrove is not in fact Anne Elliot, but the youngest of the three Elliot daughters, Mary. She looks a little like Anne, but bears a much closer resemblance to their eldest sister. Her two boys immediately claim the attentions and affection of their grandmother, the eldest still sporting a crisp white sling after his fall.

The dinner is fancy, outdoors in the warm summer air, lit by candles and lanterns strung up in the branches of nearby trees, and low-sweeping chains of fairy lights above them. The party is large, conversations flow freely and truth be told, Fred remembers almost none of it. His attention flits between speakers, from the Musgrove twins, to Mary berating her husband about letting their youngest boy play with his food, to whomever it is that asks about Anne. It's Mrs Musgrove that asks about her first, and it's Mary that answers. Walter and Elizabeth clearly out of touch with her, even the woman to Walter's left, Rachel Russell, the girls' maternal aunt is silent, her own gaze directed towards her youngest niece as she responds to the query.

This Aunt is the woman who convinced Anne to end their relationship, the one person in the world that Fred remembers that Anne would trust more than anyone, the one person whose word she took as law; even when she wanted to do the complete opposite, Anne would always meekly comply with what her aunt suggested. This is the woman who Fred assumes was the one Anne would have run to after telling Fred she couldn't keep seeing him, and she has no idea how Anne is now.

Anne is, according to Mary, doing well, settled into a new house in Taunton with " _her man"_. Fred isn't sure what to make of that statement, but figures he'll have to make peace with it, since both Anne and 'her man' will be coming to Dorchester in the next week for Mary's birthday.

.::.

The next week passes quickly, too quickly for his liking, and before he has time to really come to terms with her impending arrival, it's Saturday morning, and they're all at Mary and Charles' place, the kids outside playing football, the countless adults spread out between the living room, the patio and the huge kitchen, a few of the more athletic adults like Charles and himself are adjudicating the kids game, occasionally joining in to help give the younger ones a boost. Car after car arrives, and Fred keeps his head in the game, only looking up when his name is called and introductions are made. There are many of the same people from the Musgrove's dinner party, and an equal number of brand new acquaintances made in an hour of arrivals; more of the same, endless new faces and a name to vaguely remember afterwards.

Eventually the kids tire of the game, and go inside to search of food and sugary drinks to replenish their energy. The adults have now spilt into the garden from the patio, seeking shade under professionally cared for trees, sitting on soft throw rugs and blankets. She has not yet arrived, but Fred knows she'll be there.

By the time the kids resume their football game, both he and Charles are inside, ushered in by Mr Musgrove who announced that if Charles didn't get to Mary's side within the next two minutes, there'd be a homicide. There was a cake-tastrophe of some minor description, all solved with an icing pen and a bottle of cachous in under five minutes.

.::.

When Anne does arrive, it's quiet, a far cry from the booming and boisterous arrival of her father and eldest sister who entered the house dressed in all their designer finery, trailed by three of their house hold staff laden with wrapped gifts for the birthday girl. Anne and "her man" are staying with Mary and Charles for a few days, so she had parked by the back door and with everyone so focused on Mary on the patio, their arrival had been understated and unnoticed by virtually all the party.

Fred is next to Charles on the patio as Mary is laughing and joking with an old school friend, beer in hand, watching the kids' game below, now being refereed by one of the extended Musgrove uncles, a sturdy, balding man who Fred remembers had a firm handshake. She appears almost out of nowhere, from the patio doors, between two bodies of conversation, one hand held behind her, the one in front holding a small wrapped gift with a jaunty looking yellow bow.

The two women hug, the gift is given and received with smiles, and a young boy is pulled forward for a cuddle with his aunt. She hasn't changed, a couple of smile lines on her face and a different hair cut, but she looks as she did when he last saw her. Only she is joined by a child that is clearly her son.

He hadn't seen who was holding Anne's hand as she walked onto the patio, but when she's close enough, he can see the boy clearly. It surprises him, to see her with a child, perhaps there's a husband nearby, lugging the bags up to the spare rooms. Anne hasn't noticed him yet from where he stands, only two people away; all her focus on her younger sister and her son.

With an arm still wrapped around the boy, Mary turns to both Charles and himself, claiming at how much the boy has grown. Alex, his name is Alex. The boy's features clearly show his mother's genetics, but Fred cannot divine what the father looks like from the boy's face. He's nine, a tall boy for his age. Fred tears his eyes away from the child, only to meet the eyes of the woman he once hoped to marry. He can read recognition and fear in them, she knows exactly who he is, a decade obviously not long enough to wipe him from her memory.

 _Good,_ he thought bitterly.

.::.

After the party, hours later, Fred offers to stay to help with the clean up. He is after all, on annual leave, with nothing to do but while away his month off on whatever he chooses to do. Charles thanks him with a clap on the shoulder and a grateful nod. The catering staff had most of it in hand, but there was still an awful lot to clean up in the way of abandoned cups and plates. Mary is upstairs, reading her boys a bedtime story, Anne in the living room, trying to cajole her son into getting into his pyjamas and going to bed too. Alex is stubborn, and insists on staying up to help finish cleaning the living room, where there's only a little left to do.

Watching from nearby, and trying not to, Fred listens as they reach an agreement, she will allow him to help clean the cups from the living room, but then he is to leave the rest of the rubbish and plates and to head upstairs for bed. Alex agrees, and Fred imagines he has an insight into their daily life, a peaceful life where compromise reigns and there's no need for shouting and punishment, like Mary threatened when her own two boys wanted to keep playing. When they're done, the boy does exactly as he's told, and she tightly hugs him close and kisses his cheek before letting him go upstairs.

As Alex reaches the steps, he turns to his mother and pleads once more to be allowed to stay, smiling, dimples popping in full force for the first time that day as he tries to convince his mother to let him stay up even later than he already has, and immediately Fred knows who this child is related to.

Himself. This is _his_ son. Alex is _his_ child. It's taken all day to see it, but the dimples, and the eyes, they're from him. The boy is nine, almost a decade old, almost as old as Fred has been away from the hated county of Dorset and the woman he once fancied calling his wife. How could he have missed it?

.::.

Empty glass bottle in hand, he steps into the lounge after Anne dismisses her son's pleas, meeting her even gaze once more. They're alone in the lower level of the house, Charles being outside helping the caterers load their van. He can see the fear in her eyes again; she wrings a cloth between both hands, almost like a barrier between them.

There's nothing for it but to ask the question that's been burning his lips for the past two minutes. He sits on the vacant couch, wiping damp hands on the legs of his trousers and studies his shoes.

"Alex is my son, isn't he?"

.::.

o-o-o-o

.::.

All he hears is a sharp intake of breath from her. He can't look up, can't look at her, can't do anything but look at his feet until she says something, _anything._

"Yes," is the whispered reply, "Alex is your son."

He still can't look away from his feet, not until he hears the sound of her walking out of the back door, towards her car. He stands and makes to follow her, to stop her, stupidly thinking she's about to drive off, leaving the boy there with his cousins. Instead she opens the boot of the car, as he watches from the doorway. She lifts the flap that hides the spare wheel and pulls out packages, a box or two. He can't tell in the dark, but she has her hands full as she walks back to him. She is upset, he can tell, but she is also angry, and a thousand other emotions now swim in her eyes as she speaks to him.

"I had this horrible feeling that I'd need these, so I packed them before we left Taunton." She huffs out, "These are things I've kept, there are two notebooks, one from the pregnancy and one I've detailed all of Alex's achievements over the years in, there's a box of letters I wrote to you that I either couldn't find an address to send to, or had returned in the mail. There's a shoebox with copies of every photo I have of him and another with every letter and card he's ever written for father's days, Christmases and letters he wanted to write you just because. I have no idea what's in those because I've never opened them." She pauses a moment, eyes the packages in her arms and takes a deep breath.

"I've kept these things with me for his entire life, waiting for the day you realised you had a son and it's been nine years of me collecting and documenting everything for you to see what you missed. I'm not letting you anywhere near Alex until you've read every single word and looked at every picture."

She pushes the boxes into his arms, her eyes are hard, and she's close to tears, but he nods and she nods and then turns away from him, heading upstairs to her... to _their_ son.

Putting the boxes in his car quickly to avoid raising questions, he begs leave of Charles, the cleaning mostly done and the hour getting late, his welcome close to being overstayed. Charles waves him off, claps him on the back and thanks him for everything, telling him that they'll all do dinner sometime in the week.

.::.

Fred doesn't sleep much that night. Instead he spends hours pouring over everything Anne has given him. He starts at the beginning, the first page of the pregnancy notebook, only she's written it as a cross between a journal and letters, and he feels like an ass as she reveals her pain.

 _Fred,_ the first page begins;

 _I don't know when you're reading this, but today is the eighth of May, and it's been three weeks since I told you I couldn't see you anymore, and I've just found out that I'm pregnant. The baby is yours, of course, like I'd be the kind of girl to have anything otherwise, but you're not here. You're not here and I have to tell everyone on my own. I have to tell my father, my aunt, my sisters and I don't even get to tell you. I checked with your housemates, but they said you'd left, and that you hadn't provided a forwarding address yet, they promised to give it to me. I wish you were here to laugh with me, but they treated me like I was rubbish when I first went over, but changed their tune when I told them about the baby. I hope that maybe they tell you, that maybe you'll come back just to see if it's true and that I'm writing this whole thing out of grief._

 _Who am I kidding, Fred, you are gone, you've been gone for almost a month and it's my fault. I'm going to have a baby, which is_ our _fault (you get half the blame here), but I have to shoulder the entirety of the responsibility, which is your fault._

 _Why didn't you have faith in me? I get that I'm a pushover, that people walk all over me like I'm a plank of wood, but Aunt Rachel has been the only sensible voice in my ear since my mum died, and she was completely against us getting engaged. She's going to be the first one I tell about our baby. She's going to tell me that "we can take care of it" and that I won't have to deal with it for too much longer, but I've decided to keep it. I'm 100% sure I'm keeping it and no amount of cajoling from her, from Liz or from dad will change my mind. If only you were here to watch me defend myself. My little sister Mary is coming back for summer break next week, and I imagine she'll be the only one who has the decency to at least pretend to be happy for me._

 _Dad's going to panic of course, his disappointment of a middle daughter getting pregnant out of wedlock whilst still in her teens? I can imagine I'm going to get an Oscar-worthy performance out of him tonight. Liz is going to be furious and say I'm wasting my future, but I've reached the point now where it'll all wash over me. I'm still numb from you._

 _I can feel the baby squirming and moving inside me. It's the weirdest thing I've ever felt. Kind of like a feather, tickling from the inside. Morning sickness sucks, but that's only happened twice so far. First time I thought it was food poisoning, second time I thought I was dying until my blood test came back from the doctor's. It was like_ surprise _you're not dying, instead you're creating a new life, congratulations!_

 _I feel like you won't be there to watch our baby grow up, but know that whenever I see him or her, I'll think of you, and if nothing else, I'll always love you for their sake._

 _Anne._

.::.

After that there are pages and pages, daily entries, others a few days apart, the last one in the notebook is a hurried scribble, written in between labour pains, almost illegible. He reads every word, like she said; trying to insert himself into the memories he's missed over the past nine years of Anne and his son's life. He moves on to the second journal, reading about his son's first steps, first words, his first bike and nine years of birthdays and Christmases that he hadn't known to be there for. The box of pictures and the unsent and returned letters from Anne are next, and he finds himself reading through his tears, he can feel her desperation in them, for him to appear from wherever it was that he had gone – London, the great sprawling city was where he had lost himself – and would come back to her, to them. There are pictures, obviously taken by a teenage Mary of Anne's pregnancy, she glows in the ones with her bump, but Fred looks into the eyes of the girl in the pictures, and feels like he isn't imaging the pain in her gaze, that the frozen smiles don't quite reach her eyes.

He's purposely saved the box of letters from Alex for last. He knows that he's got a responsibility to step up to, and for a few final moments, he sits quietly, looking at the unopened box that will finally enter him into fatherhood, from a job that he cannot back away from, from a child who spent his whole life writing letters to a faceless and nameless man.

Fred wonders if the boy has been told anything about him, or whether Anne just changed the subject when it was brought up that they only had two place settings at the table.

He opens the box from his son. The things inside are in reverse order, the newest on top, so he tips them out, letting the large amount of glitter fall onto the bed spread along with the papers. There are infantile pictures, drawn at day care, a careful hand scribing the boy's words underneath a picture of three people. Cards with tissue paper bowties and glitter flowers for father's days, an origami boat and envelopes of letters wishing him a merry Christmas, all of them done by a child no older than five or six. There are holiday recounts written at school, acrostic poetry, invitations for father-son camping trips, a flyer for the circus and a small handful of notes of ideas for things they could build together. He opens the last letter, written in a clearer hand, _to Dad_ written on the front, no embellishments like the earlier ones, just a plain envelope with his new title on it. The letter itself is written on pad paper, probably from school. It ends up being only a few weeks old, the date at the top showing it was from the last month of the school year.

 _Dear Dad,_ it starts, _I got in trouble at recess today, one of the boys in the other class said something nasty so I punched him in the face. I got suspended but Mum's at work so she can't pick me up. Mr Blanchard tried telling me off, saying that Tommy's parents are furious, and that his dad is coming in for a meeting with him and that he's about to go and ring my dad and ask you to come in too. He didn't look so happy when I said that I didn't have a dad. All my classmates have got both their mums and dads, but I've only got mum because you're not here. Mr Blanchard said I'll have to stay at home for the next week. I'll do all my class work without Mrs Grady to tell me how to do any of it. Mum's good like that though, she helps me when I don't understand stuff._

 _Mr Blanchard is on the phone again trying to convince Mum to leave work; I'm stuck outside his office with a pad of paper and a pen. He told me to write a letter to Tommy saying sorry, but I'm not sorry, Tommy called you a deadbeat and he called mum a whore, and none of that is true, so I punched him in the face and now he's sooking in the nurse's office. He's got a bloody nose, but I didn't break anything. I can hear Mr Blanchard talking to mum; he's saying that this isn't the first time I've been in trouble this month. It's not true though, I had nothing to do with Casey Green's broken arm that he got in PE, we were all playing football and he tripped over the ball when the teacher wasn't looking and the PE teacher, Mr Sands thought it was me. He said I was a bad kid and a waste of an education and that my behaviour was going to lead me into a deadbeat life filled with drugs. I'm not allowed to join in with PE anymore for the rest of the school year. Casey didn't say anything so we aren't friends anymore. Mr Sands is nasty to me, but he's not the only teacher who tells me I'm a bad kid._

 _Why am I a bad kid? Dad if you were here I think I would be a good kid and the teachers wouldn't pick on me so much. I'd probably have more friends too. I didn't get invited to Morgan's birthday because they were going camping and it was for boys and dads only and all the other boys have their dads except me. Can we go camping when you get here? I've only ever camped in the back yard with mum and I've only ever gone bush exploring at Grandfather's big garden._

 _Alex._

A scrawled post script is added, a different coloured ink, clearly written later that day,

 _P.S. Mum got off work and came in to have the meeting with Mr Blanchard and Tommy's dad. I had to be there too and I told them what Tommy called you and mum because mum always says to tell the truth even if it isn't nice. Mr Blanchard was shocked because he thought it was all my fault. Tommy got suspended too and his dad smacked his head when he came from the nurse's office and said that he taught Tommy better than to say things like that. Tommy's dad made him apologise to mum for called her that, and Mr Blanchard didn't even make me apologise to Tommy. He did read this letter though and he was mad that Mr Sands hadn't listened to me about Casey's arm and said he was going to talk to Mr Sands and Casey too._

.:.

That letter ends a night of reading, and gazing at old photos of the woman whom he walked away from after she offended him. The face of the woman who bore his child, the woman who has spent the past decade raising their boy with quiet dignity whilst he was off living in London with no idea that he was a father, those important moments frozen in time in the photographs.

His sleep that night is marred by pseudo memories of a boy's childhood he has only seen from the photos, a smiling child, a laughing woman, and happy family holidays spent on the coast and weekends at the park riding bikes and playing on the swings and then it switches into a nightmare, the boy with his father's dimples is cajoling, pleading for him to be there, his _pleases_ at his father are desperate and in the dream Fred cannot reach his son and the echo of the words " _I'm not letting you anywhere near Alex…"_ call out but Anne is nowhere to be seen, and everywhere he turns he can hear her voice but he cannot see her and when he reaches, he can feel the wisps of her but cannot reach her.

In the morning he wakes from the worst night's sleep in his memory. His eyes ache and every muscles screams at him to stay under the covers a while longer. But his brain is wired, and when it hits ten in the morning he's putting on his seatbelt and high tailing it to Mary and Charles' place, arriving to find that both Mary and Charles are both out with their boys, and Anne and Alex are the only ones at home. Anne is the one to answer the door and the shock registers on her face when she recognises him.

Without any further prompting he says "I read everything," before stepping forward to where she stood in the door and enveloping her in a hug. She stiffens in his arms for a beat, and then exhales and melts into it, her arms coming up to wrap around him. Between them it feels like a decade hasn't passed, and he imagines he can smell the very same sweet shampoo she used when they were in college. He rests his nose on her shoulder, eyes closed and he isn't sure how to react when he hears her sniff and reach an arm up to wipe her eyes.

"Mum?" Is the question coming from the boy who is holding the remote to the television. Fred's eyes settle on him when they open, letting Anne go as she turns to face their son. Her eyes are dry, only a little watery, and she faces her son with a bright smile. Alex's eyes stay on him though, and Fred tries not to squirm under the boy's curious gaze.

Anne rests both her hands on their son's shoulders and squats down to his level.

"Come sit in the lounge, there's someone I want you to meet properly." She tells him, and when the boy disappears into the adjoining room, she turns back to Fred, "You really ready for this?" she asks, completely calm on the outside, composed and ready to face the oncoming storm that is likely to unfold. The giveaway to her nerves is the shuddering, deep breath she takes after she speaks.

He nods; reaching for one of her hands and says quietly "Introduce me to our son."

.::.

 _Finite_

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